SON OF THE WIND
up his eyebrows at her. "But sometimes they do trample us into nothing."
"Not often." She spoke as if it were to be regretted.
"My bloodthirsty young friend!" He threw back his head and laughed until the desolate old spring walk and well echoed. "Don't you believe in the Christian virtues of meekness and obedience?"
"No—they're stupid. They're all right for children, and dogs; but for splendid crashing things like horses—"
He looked at her curiously. The faint color was coming up under her dusky white skin, not rose, but a duller, more passionate hue. Her head had turned slowly to the profile, and again he felt her thought was traveling away from him. She did not see, as Carron saw, a long slow-dancing shadow coming down the walk between the gray hand-rails. The approach of feet was soundless on the forest's strewn carpet. She did not see her father as he dawned between the close pine branches.
He stopped just at the threshold of the inclosure, a queer figure astray in the trees, an indoor figure, one that would have been at home at a desk, or that would have known its way about among bookshelves. His glasses were pushed up, his foggy hair was distracted on his head, his hands plunged deep in his pockets. In the warm, out-of-door light
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